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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29251167">this is home</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesdayevening/pseuds/wednesdayevening'>wednesdayevening</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>take a look in that mirror, now tell me who's the fairest [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Coming Out, Dadza, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, IRL Fic, Internalised Transphobia, Original Character(s), Outing, Trans TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Transphobia, deadnaming, everyone says trans rights, fuck you, trans author, wilbur says trans rights</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:40:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,723</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29251167</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesdayevening/pseuds/wednesdayevening</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s nice to be out, if only to two people. He sends Tubbo horrible memes. He spams Wilbur with terrible dad jokes.</p><p>It’s safe to say, though, that his DMs are fairly incriminating.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Phil Watson &amp; TommyInnit, Technoblade &amp; TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo &amp; TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot &amp; Technoblade &amp; TommyInnit &amp; Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>take a look in that mirror, now tell me who's the fairest [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2069958</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>197</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2616</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>this is home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>drinking game: take a shot every time I use a hyphen. or a pagebreak. </p><p>(can u tell i dont have a twitter. f)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s nice to be out, if only to two people.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo is just amazing.  If anyone likens Tommy to a girl – not for any malicious purpose, just for content – Tubbo shuts it down before Tommy can even realise what’s happening. He listens to Tommy ramble about dysphoria and the kids at school and everything else, and crams as many big mans and male-gendered language as possible into their conversations on bad days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur is surprisingly knowledgeable. He makes sure Tommy isn’t ever binding for more than eight hours, which ends up being more of a curse than a blessing. He sends Tommy the nice articles – not the annoying bigoted ones, but the happy ones – about the new American transgender senator or a new bill passed in some country in favour of trans rights. Tommy finds a compilation of him saying trans rights and watches it too many times to count.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Tommy – well. Now that he’s out he can finally make use of the list of trans-related jokes he’s been waiting to tell for three years. He sends Tubbo horrible memes</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He spams Wilbur with frankly terrible dad jokes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s safe to say, though, that his DMs are fairly incriminating.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p><span>He wakes up to a billion notifications. His phone is on 12% and vibrating so hard</span> <span>Tommy’s surprised the action didn’t wake him up. Bleary-eyed, he switches it on, swiping past the thousands of Twitter notifications. The red button in the corner of his messages app reads 420, and in his sleep-addled daze, all Tommy can think is </span><em><span>nice </span></em><span>rather than panic. </span></p><p>
  <span>His phone buzzes again, this time with a call. He fumbles with the phone and swipes furiously at his lagging screen. The call accepts and he taps speakerphone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘Ello?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Toms, Tommy, Tommy,” Wilbur’s voice is urgent. Tommy sits straight up. His spine clicks. “Have you checked Twitter?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, what?” He says. The sleepy feeling has completely left the fucking building</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
  <span>All that’s left is sheer panic. “Wilbur, what’s going on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t check Twitter. Have you got class today?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’ve got Media Studies at 10 - Wilbur,” He repeats. “What the fuck is going on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stay home from school.” There’s a jingle of keys from Wibur’s end, then the sound of a car engine revving. Tommy’s pulse jackrabbits. “I’ll see you in half an hour. Do </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>check Twitter.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t tell me what to do,” Tommy mumbles weakly, but Wilbur’s already hung up. </span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>A car skids into Tommy’s driveway - skids, like in a fucking action movie. Wilbur’s Corolla is parked incredibly askew, front tire squashing the grass of his front lawn. The smell of burning rubber floats through his open upstairs window. He peers through the curtains and watches as Wilbur exits the car awkwardly, unfolding his lanky limbs like some sort of six-foot-five butterfly emerging from its cocoon. Tommy snorts. He stops laughing when the passenger seat opens and Phil climbs out, because if Philza fucking Minecraft is here then shit is probably serious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hiya, mate,” Phil greets when Tommy answers the door. His finger is still on the ring button, incessant buzzing still echoing in his ears. He dives straight in for a hug. “How are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bit confused, to be honest.” Tommy pulls away, stepping back from the doorway. Phil and Wil move inside, and he shuts the door behind them. “Is someone gonna tell me what the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>is going on? Wil? Why’d you make me turn my phone off?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brain is suggesting guesses as to what’s going on rapid-fire, bang, bang, bang, one after the other. TOS. He’s being cancelled. Someone </span>
  <em>
    <span>else </span>
  </em>
  <span>is being cancelled. Wilbur and Phil exchange a look, and Tommy clenches his fists in an attempt to stifle his anger. “Are you gonna fucking tell me, or am I gonna keep guessing?” He bursts. “I’m not a child. What’s wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither of his friends look concerned nor angry about his outburst, which is strange. Instead, there’s a pitying, sympathetic expression on both of their faces. Tommy thinks sympathy might be worse than anger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Toms,” Wilbur says gently, raising a hand slowly to hold Tommy’s shoulder, thumb tracing slow circles on his back. He sounds like he’s talking to a wounded animal. It only makes him more nervous - Wilbur wouldn’t pull this mellow behaviour out of nowhere. “Last night, someone posted - I - you got outed, Tommy. Someone outed you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s always been a possibility in the back of Tommy’s mind that this would happen. He’s spent countless nights awake pondering the very scenario, drafting out in his mind what he’d say, how he’d handle it. Hearing the words come out of Wilbur’s mouth – it’s just. Fuck. His blood runs cold.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Someone outed you. Someone outed you. Someone outed you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He inhales shakily, mouth dry, hands clammy. His heart throws itself against his chest like it’s trying to smash his ribcage into a thousand tiny pieces. “I -,” He says, voice cracking. He blinks heavily. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What? How? </span>
  </em>
  <span>“I - I don’t understand. Wil?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would never, Toms,” Wilbur’s face looks pained. “Your DMs got leaked.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” Tommy says. He’s so far away. The distance between him and Phil is a mere metre but feels like kilometres. He stares at the eggshell-coloured wall behind his friends, and tries not to crack. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tommy,” Phil says, ever so gently. His eyes are wide, eyebrows flicked up, mouth open in a pitying smile. “We’re gonna sort it out, okay? It’s okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy blinks, opens his mouth, and realises that </span>
  <em>
    <span>Phil fucking knows. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Phil knows his biggest secret, and Tommy didn’t even get to tell him.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Everyone knows, </span>
  </em>
  <span>his brain says, catching up. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not just Phil. The whole world knows.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“ – Tom? Tommy, you with us? What’s wrong, mate? Tell us what’s going on, Tom, please - we can help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything is happening so fast. It’s too much. Tommy breaks, and the wall of defence comes rushing up to meet the broken shards of his brain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t – what the fuck. I don’t need your help!” He steps forward, and in a fit of rage, shoves both hands into Phil’s chest. Phil stumbles backwards. “I’m fine - everything’s fine - I’ll sort it out. I didn’t fucking ask for you to be here, did I? There’s the door, Wil, you can leave. Lovely to see you, Phil, but frankly, I don’t give a flying shit.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Toms,” Wilbur whispers. “We’ll sort this out. You’re just a kid - “</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>not a fucking child</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” He roars. He launches himself at Wilbur, fists flying. Wilbur’s arms wrap around him. He squirms, beating at his chest pathetically. “Let - me - go! Fuck off!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tommy,” Wil whispers in that soft, brotherly tone. “It’s okay, Toms. We’re here, yeah?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not a fucking child,” He repeats, but his throat is thick with tears and the words come out all twisted and emotional. “I’m - I’m - “ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur’s arms are tight and Tommy </span>
  <em>
    <span>shatters.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” He says as Tommy sobs. “I know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They stay like that for far too long – a hug pile in the hallway of Tommy’s house. Wilbur tells stupid stories and tells them about the new songs he’s writing and his upcoming band project in an effort to calm Tommy down. Phil rants about projects for his harcore world. The sun is considerably lower in the sky when the tears and sniffles stop coming, and even lower when they all finally stand up. Wilbur spends ten minutes shaking out a mean case of pins and needles in his right leg. Tommy watches him hop awkwardly around and smirks for what feels like the first time in a while.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh,” Wilbur says eloquently, once he can walk on his leg again without toppling over like a newborn giraffe, “Listen, I’m not very well-versed in nuclear families, but shouldn’t your parents be home or something, Tommy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wedding anniversary,” Tommy answers, cracking his knuckles and spine. Next to him, Phil cringes at the noise. He grins and does it again. “Trip to the Bahamas; they left yesterday morning. I’m supposed to go to Grandma’s today - oh, fuck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur meets his eye from across the room and smiles empathetically - he knows Tommy’s extended family is...fun. He claps his hands twice and grins. “Right, then. Tommy, call your Grand-bitch and tell her you’re staying with us. You can give her my number if you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy blinks. “Wilbur, what the fuck? I can’t - I can’t ask you to do that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good thing I’m not asking,” Wilbur says cheerfully. “Chop, chop, gremlin child. People to see, places to go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Phil laughs. “It’s places to go, people to see, Wilbur - not the reverse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy hears Wilbur snort as he turns away to run upstairs. “Shut the fuck up, Philza Minecraft. Are you coming to the sleepover or what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles to himself in spite of it all and climbs the rest of the stairs two at a time, still shaking and stumbling, remnants of his panic attack clinging to his consciousness. His pulse reverberates in his ears and he blinks furiously to clear his thoughts. </span>
  <em>
    <span>A sleepover, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Wilbur had said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blindly, he finds his school bag, dumps the books out of it and the empty water bottle on his desk. He grabs a couple of shirts and pants and his spare binder and shoves them haphazardly in the bag. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Toiletries, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks absent-mindedly, and throws his bag in there too. His Testosterone goes in too - he’s due for a shot tomorrow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns around and to grab his gaming laptop and mouse and stares. The trans pride flag flares almost menacingly at him from above his setup. Usually, he loves it, but right now it only serves as a painful reminder. A taunt. </span>
  <em>
    <span>If you were cis, none of this would’ve happened. Who would watch you? You’re out now. You’re gonna lose thousands of followers. You’re a burden to your family, to Phil, to Techno, to Tubbo, to Wilbur - </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“- bud, breathe,” Someone is saying. Their hands are on him and he flinches hard into the wall behind him. “Hey. Hey. It’s just me, Toms. Wilbur. Can you breathe?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He inhales shakily and the burning sensation he wasn’t aware of in his chest ceases. This whole situation is “S - sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur shakes his head. His curls flop over his face. “Don’t be. Is that your bag?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy nods. Wilbur’s hand snakes out and rubs his shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay, Tommy. Everything will be fine.”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>The trip to Wilbur’s place isn’t long. Phil drives - “I almost had a heart attack on the way over, mate.” Tommy sits in the back with Wilbur and they watch Techno’s latest video. It’s dumb - something about trolling Skeppy - but it’s wildly hilarious. Tommy leaves a like as Phil pulls up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur slides his key into the apartment lock and swings open the door. “Welcome to my humble abode.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not a particularly big apartment, but every inch of it </span>
  <em>
    <span>screams</span>
  </em>
  <span> Wilbur. There’s Baby Blue - the electric guitar from all his music videos propped up in the corner of the living room, acoustic on the couch. Tommy spies a box of earl grey tea on the counter next to a half-eaten loaf of bread - Tommy’s willing to bet good money Wilbur eats that shit straight; his sense of taste is virtually non-existent. His trademark yellow sweater is on the back of one of the three dining table chairs. There’s a couple of framed posters on the walls - Hamilton and a couple of indie bands Tommy’s never heard of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Philza Minecraft has definitely been here before; he strides into the kitchen with purpose and turns the kettle on and reaches for an impossibly high shelf, hand scrambling to retrieve three mugs. Wilbur laughs. “Need a hand there, Phil?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just wanted to make a fucking cuppa,” Phil grumbles. “Why the fuck are your shelves so high?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why the fuck are you so short?” Wilbur counters, but hands Phil the mugs. He turns around. “Toms, you can sit down. The couch isn’t going to bite you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck you, big man,” Tommy says. He sinks into Wilbur’s surprisingly comfortable couch and places his bag gently at his feet. Sure, he might be a dickhead on stream, but he has some sense of decency when it comes to people’s houses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Phil sets a steaming cup of something in front of him. “Hot chocolate,” He says, smiling softly. “Wilbur doesn’t have any Coke.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You heathen,” Tommy says to Wilbur. He takes the mug in his hands and grins. “Thanks, Phil.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur screeches. “He has manners! The gremlin child has </span>
  <em>
    <span>manners!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Phil pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, crumpling into an armchair opposite Tommy. “I can’t believe this is my life. I’m thirty-two, and I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>babysitting fucking children</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur makes an indignant noise in the back of his throat. “Fuck you. I’m twenty-four.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Act like it then,” Phil says, but he’s laughing. Tommy giggles, and then Wilbur joins in. Tommy forgets about everything, just for a second, and then –</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you wanna do, Tommy? About the situation?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stops laughing and stares at the murky complexion of his drink. A lone bubble rises to the surface, pops, and dissipates into the air. He wishes he could do the same – just disappear. Not have to deal with anything. “I – I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s okay,” Wilbur says. He collapses on cushion next to Tommy, curling his legs underneath him. “That’s what we’re here for. To help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur’s words are so sweet and genuine. A warmth spreads through Tommy that has nothing to do with the hot chocolate he’s drinking. He cracks a sincere smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Phil takes an obnoxiously loud slurp of his drink. “We could record a video? Tweet something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy tilts his head, pondering. “Yeah, I dunno. I feel like I wanna do it live, as fuckin’ terrifying as that would be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s kind of your thing,” Wilbur nods, even though they’re all streamers. Tommy gets what he means. “Would you want us there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not in the background,” He answers, “’cos the stans would have a field day, but, like – in the same room? Or downstairs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a unanimous nod of approval. Phil drains his cup and stands. “It’s a shame Techno isn’t here. We’d have the whole gang together.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Twitter would combust,” Wilbur says. Tommy doesn’t really hear him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Techno. Techno. Techno knows, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Tommy,” Wilbur says, and Tommy realises he’s just said that out aloud. “I’m sorry, kiddo.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy opens his mouth, intending to banish the sympathetic atmosphere in the room, a joke on the tip of his tongue, but the only thing that passes his lips is a dry sob. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Phil’s eyes soften. He drops his mug in the sink and makes his way back to the living room, crouching down to Tommy’s eyeline. “I guarantee you Techno doesn’t think any differently of you, mate. I’ll call him right now and prove it if you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bet,” Tommy says on autopilot, and Phil pulls out his phone. “Wait, you’re serious? Phil, </span>
  <em>
    <span>no - </span>
  </em>
  <span>“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ello</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy buries his head in his knees. “Wilbur,” He hisses, hand scrambling on the cushion beside him for his pseudo-brother. “Tell him I’m not here. Tell him I’ve died, or something. Fatal car crash. Tell him - “</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Tell me yourself, nerd</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy freezes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck. </span>
  </em>
  <span>There’s a sigh from the other end, and for a split second Tommy’s world crashes and burns for the second time today. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He hates you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, his brain says, but then Techno’s monotone voice filters through the call.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m so sorry I can’t be there physically for you right now, Tommy.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy blanches. “Wh - you don’t hate me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Hate you?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Techno says, sounding aghast. Tommy’s not used to hearing him with this much emotion in his voice. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Kiddo, I could never hate you. We gotta get that clout, remember? SBI? That shit gets me so many likes.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets out a wet laugh. Phil, still holding the phone, stands up and plonks down in the space next to him. Wilbur shuffles closer on Tommy’s other side and pulls him into a one-armed hug. Tommy lets his head droop onto Wil’s shoulder. “Gotta get that one-in-ten confetti.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Techno snorts. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Of course. I would kill my dog for the one-in-ten confetti</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Phil giggles. Tommy stares at his hands. The words come rising up out of his mouth before he can stop them. “I wish it wasn’t like this,” He whispers, loud enough for the phone to pick up. “I didn’t - I didn’t want to have to come out to you - to all of you guys like this. I was going to, I swear but, that shit’s hard, y’know?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They don’t know - Tommy’s fairly certain he’s the only non-cishet person in the room and on the call, but everyone makes a noise of confirmation all the same. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Nothin’ changed, yknow?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Techno says gruffly. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re still my dumbass brother, or whatever. Don’t tell Twitter I said that.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Tommy replies. He grins: Techno’s never called him his brother before. It’s - it’s a good feeling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A moment of comfortable silence passes. Phil stretches his legs out to the coffee table and Tommy moves his own to lay on top of them. Wilbur’s hand tousels with Tommy’s hair. He leans into the movement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Minecraft, later?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Techno says eventually. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I feel the need to kill some children.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quote book,” Wilbur grins and stretches. “Yeah, maybe. I’ve only got one PC here, so everyone’ll just have to watch me thrash the Blade.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Phil yawns. “I might go home, if that’s okay - m’pretty tired.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Goodnight, old man,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Techno laughs. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>DM me if you’re coming on, Wilbur. I’ll be grinding, or whatever.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Techno hangs up then, and Phil collects his wallet from the table and jacket from the hook by the front door. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Wilbur, don’t let the child near flammable items. Love you both.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He closes the front door. Tommy lets his head drop back onto Wilbur’s shoulder and feels his body relax; he’s exhausted. It’s been a massive fucking day. Wilbur seems to catch on, because he shifts his shoulder and pushes Tommy’s head off so it flops unceremoniously into his lip. “Oi.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No sleeping ‘till the binder comes off,” Wilbur chastises. “Go get changed. I’ll make your bed up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, no,” Tommy protests, but Wilbur’s already standing up and pulling blankets out from a cupboard. “Wilburrrrrr, come on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nuh-uh,” Wilbur points to the bathroom door. “Go, gremlin child. Binder off.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Asshole,” Tommy groans, but Wilbur’s eyebrow raises, signifying finality. Begrudgingly, he grabs his bag and stalks down toward the hall towards the bathroom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taking it off is the last thing he wants to do - the reminder he’s biologically female is too much to handle right now. Hatred bubbles up in his chest and rises in his throat like bile, but it’s been fifteen-odd hours and Wilbur’s outside, waiting, expectant. He screws his eyes shut as tight as possible and wrenches his shirt off, and, more reluctantly, his binder. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t think don’t think don’t think don’t think. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He turns the door handle and steps out, binder in his hand. When he enters the living room again he waves it in the vision of an expectant Wilbur. “There you go, dickhead. Happy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur nods. Tommy scowls, hunching over on himself so he can’t feel - that. Wil points eagerly to a puddle of mismatched blankets and throw pillows on the couch. “Is this okay? Sorry I don’t have another spare room.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” Tommy says, because it is. The little blanket cocoon looks perfect. He resists the urge to crawl inside and hibernate forever - or whatever the fuck butterflies do. “Thanks, big man.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re very welcome, Mister Innit.” Wilbur’s hand snakes out of his sweater and ruffles his hair. “Night, Toms.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“G’night, Wilbur.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy settles into his makeshift bed and listens to Wilbur’s door closing down the hall. Through the gaps in the curtains he can see the flashing lights of the traffic, the red and blue blur of police sirens. Wil’s house is a lot closer to the highway then his own. He doesn’t dislike it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brain tires of gazing out after the cars and wanders. He’s not tired anymore, and without anything to distract himself his hand gravitates automatically to his pocket, toward his phone. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You shouldn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>, his one remaining brain cell says. He forces the thought back with practiced ease and turns it on. The blue light is familiar. He types in his passcode. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Twitter app burns a hole in his skull. His thumb hovers uncertainly above the screen. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I shouldn’t. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He pauses. Reasons with himself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>If I go on my alt, maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>(He’ll learn later that that was a stupid decision - majority of his indirects on his main account and posts under the trending tag were positive messages, heartwarming questions, worries about his mental health. His alt account, however, would see everything else.)</span>
</p><p><span>He logs in - ts2004. It’s not particularly original, a combination of his birth year and initials, but all he does is scour tweets. He never likes or retweets anything. Anyone that came across the account would probably assume he was a Taylor Swift stan or something.</span> <span>With shaky fingers, he scrolls up and goes to type in his name, only to find #transtommyinnit still in the top ten trending. </span></p><p>
  <span>He sits up. His stomach threatens to dislodge its last meal. He scrolls and scrolls and scrolls and scrolls. There’s a link to a Good Morning Britain clip about him featuring a very, </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>ignorant Piers Morgan. There’s a couple of accounts with his face in front of a trans flag set as their profile picture. And there’s hundreds of hate comments. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>tommyiinnnit: well i guess i have to change my name now lmao. bit disappointing tbh </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>crystalwastaken: she just lost a follow. cant believe i watched this shit</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>peachyy23: i think the worst part of this was that he hid it. i’m supportive, but i just feel like he was lying to us the whole time. we deserve an apology.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, the icing on the fucking cake - </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>samturner04: i wanna send a thank u letter to whoever hacked her account.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He throws the phone. It bounces off the couch and clatters to the floor anti-climatically. He’s shaking, trembling from head to toe. </span>
  <em>
    <span>They hate me they hate me they hate me oh my god I’m out and they hate me - </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He stands up, runs to the sink, and vomits. </span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>“Toms?” Wilbur says the next morning when he walks out of his room. Tommy’s head snaps up and Wilbur immediately winces. “Fuck. Did you sleep at all?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” Tommy whispers. His voice is sour and scratchy. His eyes sting from lack of sleep. He guesses they’re puffy. “Wil, I - “</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice breaks and something inside him snaps. In an attempt to keep the tears in, he shoves the palms of his hands into his eye sockets, heaving in a breath and stuttering it out. This whole thing is just so fucking stupid. He can’t stop crying. “Sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re okay.” Wilbur’s slender fingers pry his hands away from his eyes. Tommy sees stars. The weight of his phone on his leg disappears. “Oh, buddy. You checked Twitter?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His vision clears and Wilbur swims in front of him. He nods shakily. “Sorry - I shouldn’t’ve - I’m sorry - “</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur pulls him into an awkward hug. It’s really just a mess of lanky limbs and tears, but it’s comforting all the same. “Don’t be sorry, kiddo.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy holds onto Wilbur like an anchor. He’s strong and tall and stable. Wilbur shifts, and then holds him tighter, his arms under his. Tommy’s head is pressed into the crook of his neck, Wilbur’s hand curled in his hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Wilbur says after a moment, hand moving to card through Tommy’s hair. Tommy can hear his voice from his position intertwined in his hold, deep and low. “You know what we need?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A time machine?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur snorts and moves a finger under Tommy’s chin to lift his head up. The world shit and ugly  and all Tommy wants to do is dive under his covers and never come out again, but Wilbur swipes his thumb across Tommy’s cheek and smiles that brotherly smile, and Tommy banishes the thought from his mind. Maybe - maybe it’ll be okay. Maybe it won’t be, but at least he’s got Wilbur. “What, then?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother grins. “Ice cream.”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>They go to the Tescos near Wilbur’s house and halfway to Tommy’s school that they went to all that time ago. Wilbur goes straight to the freezer aisle, dips his hand into the frosty fridge and produces a packet of Cornettos. Tommy grins. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just like old times,” Wilbur says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy wheezes. “That was literally a whole ass month ago. You going senile in your old age, big man?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur doesn’t have an eloquent reply for that. He scowls, and Tommy doubles over with laughter, clutching his midsection. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>are! </span>
  </em>
  <span>You’re like Phil ‘n shit! Do I have to book you into a home, too? Are your joints creakin’, old man? Are you -  “</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>TommyInnit?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy stops. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He hadn’t even considered being recognised when they left Wilbur’s apartment - his fame had risen to a peak during all the lockdowns so the thought rarely crossed his mind whenever he went out. His breath rattles to a stop in his chest like an old car engine and he turns around slowly, jaw set, defenses up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, man,” The kid says. They’re shorter than him, eyes blown wide, wringing their hands nervously. Tommy notices the pin on their jacket, takes in the familiar streaks of blue, white and pink, and his heart leaps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a trans pride pin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope you’re doing okay,” They say, “I’m sorry for approaching you like this - I just. Wanted to tell you how much you’ve helped me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy blinks. “Sorry, wh -  what?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You helped me?” The kid reiterates like it’s a question, and then nods decisefully to themself. “Not just me - a lot of trans kids. And adults, I suppose. It’s really, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>good to have someone in, like, mainstream media, someone that you look up to turn out to be like you. I just wanted to let you know that everyone loves you. Seriously. There’s always gonna be the occasional dickhead, but for every one bigot there’s a hundred supporters. We’re all behind you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They fumble with the pin on their chest for a second, unhooking it from their jacket and holding it up to him. It sits on the edge of their fingertips, gleaming in the artificial light of the supermarket. “Here, man.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy’s head is spinning. He takes the pin with numb fingers and feels something blossom on his face. It takes him a moment to realise he’s grinning from ear to ear. “Thank you, uh - “</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Robin,” The kid smiles. “And no, thank </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. See you, I guess.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See you, Robin,” Tommy says, but they’re already gone. The pin is impossibly light in his palm - not because of its feather-like weight, he supposes, but because of what it holds. What it means. He flips it between his thumb and ring finger and takes in the colours not for the first time. The hook undoes with ease. He breathes in and tastes confidence. </span>
  <em>
    <span>My name is Tommy. My name is Tommy, and I’m trans. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He fastens it to his shirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” Wilbur says when he turns around. The box of Cornettos dangles from his lithe fingers. It’s tempting - to take his offer and turn away from everything, sit on Brighton Pier like old times and forget, but he can’t delay it anymore. Tommy wants to say something - </span>
  <em>
    <span>needs </span>
  </em>
  <span>to say something. If not for him - for those kids. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” Tommy echoes. “Can we put the ice-cream thing on hold? There’s something I’ve gotta do.” </span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>“You ready?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Philza Minecraft is downstairs as promised, doing god knows what - adult big man shit, probably. Wilbur Soot is in Tommy’s room. Tubbo and Techno’s well-wishing texts are still hanging in the air. Tommy’s finger is on the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Start Stream </span>
  </em>
  <span>button. This is it. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Am I ready? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tommy thinks. There’s no going back after this. Wilbur comes up behind him, reflection distorted in his PC screen. He catches Tommy’s gaze and rests a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be with you the whole time, yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Tommy says. He’s surprised at how strong his voice comes out. “Yeah. I’m ready.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur squeezes his shoulder twice and steps out of the frame. Tommy exhales deeply. Puts his hand on the mouse, pointer finger poised. Moves the cursor. He’s ready. </span>
</p><p><span>He clicks the start stream. Immediately, the viewer count swells. </span><em><span>1k. 10k. 23k. 36k. 60. 70. 100k. 200k.</span></em> </p><p>
  <span>“Chat,” Tommy greets. It’s strange to be back here, even if his break was only for a day. This whole fiasco has seemed a lot longer than twenty-four hours. “No coke today, but thanks for the fifty pounds, JessiePog, Jesus Christ. Real talk for a sec, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t look at the millions of messages flying past. In the corner of his screen, the numbers are still rising: </span>
  <em>
    <span>300k. 340. 370. 400k. 410. 560. </span>
  </em>
  <span>There are at least fifteen extra moderators on – he’d warned them all before Wilbur sent out the solemn announcement tweet, the first one he’d posted since everything: </span>
  <em>
    <span>serious stream today. 8pm bst. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Judging by the still-growing viewer-count, Tommy probably should’ve enlisted the help of more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wow. This is – this is a lot of viewers.” He aims for a chuckle. It comes out stuttered; he’s deathly nervous. Tommy wipes his hands on his jeans and breathes deeply. “Okay. Um. Maybe – mods, maybe go for emote only?” He waits for them to comply and then continues. “Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A couple of days ago, someone hacked my Twitter and posted screenshots of my private DMs and drafts, as you all know. I’m gathering you all know. It’s – it’s not exactly new news, at this point. Anyway, um. I’m pretty sure I have to come out and say it. I’m – I’m trans. Transgender. That’s me.” He raises his hand to wave awkwardly at the camera, but his fingers are shaking so much he sits on them instead. “It doesn’t change anything, chat; I’m still TommyInnit – still an annoying sixteen-year-old.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whoever did that, and you know who you are – that was a gross violation of my privacy. And – and not just my privacy. A really important part about coming out is choosing that right moment – making that decision yourself when you’re comfortable and ready and you feel safe ‘n all that shit. Maybe one day I would’ve come out on my own accord, on my own terms, or maybe not, and that’s my choice, but I don’t really have that choice anymore. Whoever leaked that shit took that away from me. Which is. Un-pog.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a breath, and then smiles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t planning on saying anything for a bit - I was ‘prolly gonna like, take a big break or something; this shit is hard, chat, there’s no WikiHow article on what to do when you’re outed.” He laughs and shakes his head. “I hate to sound like one of them shit ass Hallmark movies, but someone - someone showed me that this whole thing is a lot bigger than myself. That me coming out </span>
  <em>
    <span>helps people</span>
  </em>
  <span> - that there are a whole community of people out there who are with me and for me. So, um, yeah. Thanks, Robin. And to anyone who’s trans - or queer -  in chat right now: you’re pretty PogChamp.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks away from the camera for a moment and makes eye contact with Wilbur. He’s smiling, a tissue pressed to his face, and when he sees Tommy looking he flips him off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m proud of you,” He mouths. The backs of Tommy’s eyes sting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns back to the camera, and out of the corner of his eye spies his flag, the blue, white and pink fabric still crinkled in the corners from when he’d worn it as a cape when he was thirteen. He takes the flag in one hand and rips it off the wall in one clean movement, scraping the blue-tack left behind off of the plaster, and then crosses the room, stepping back into the camera frame. He can feel Wilbur’s eyes on him, four hundred thousand people’s eyes on him. His hands are shaking so hard he’s surprised he hasn’t dropped the flag.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks for coming, chat,” He says, loud enough for his mic to pick up. “Sorry for the short stream. I’ll be back to normal streaming in a couple of days. In the meantime – “</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He presses each corner of the flag where  the blue-tack is to the wall where his stream can see, and then steps out in front of it. His reflection in the camera is clear – a terrified kid, lanky and awkward and loud, but proud</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He looks </span>
  <em>
    <span>proud</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He grins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“ – Don’t let anyone change who you are, chat. Be yourself – but only if it involves you subscribing with Prime.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From the corner of his room, Wilbur wheezes. Tommy giggles, leans forward, and taps end stream. The screen darkens and Wilbur stands up, arms out. Tommy can hear Phil’s footsteps echo on the stairs, and in his pocket his phone buzzes with texts no doubt from Tubbo and Techno - they’re two of the only four people that can bypass his do not disturb setting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy dives into Wilbur’s open embrace. “Did I do okay?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kiddo, you did amazing.” When Tommy pulls away, Wilbur’s eyes are shining. “You did such a good job.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hell yeah,” Tommy grins. “I made you cry. That’s a success.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’s crying?” Phil sticks his head in the door. His eyes are red and his smile is wide. His phone is open in his hand. Techno’s discord icon is open on the screen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Here comes Dadza to save the day,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Techno teases. Tommy laughs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you cry, Tech?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a shuffling sound and his friends laugh. Phil leans a hand against the door, cackling as Techno’s voice turns defensive. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Hey! Oi, nerds, stop laughin’, I know for a </span>
  </em>
  <span>fact </span>
  <em>
    <span>you cried, Phil, and I’m willingin’ to put good money on Wilbur cryin’ too.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The room descends into laughter again. Tommy lets Phil ruffle his hair and closes his eyes. Everything’s ended up okay. He’s with his family.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s home. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>BOYS. LADS. THIS IS IT. HOLY SHITJADHSKJSHJK. i've been writing this for so long. i hope you all enjoyed it &lt;3</p><p>thank you all for sticking around! this is probably the last fic in the series. I’ve got some more ideas for trans mcyt but they'll probably be in a seperate series. guys I wanna say thank you so fucking much the support from these fics has been immense. every comment has just been so unbelievably nice. thank u to everyone who read, kudosed, bookmarked  or subscribed to all of this. i love u all so much.</p><p>come bully me on tumblr <a href="https://wednesdayyevening.tumblr.com/">wednesdayyevening</a> if you guys would like to leave prompts or request or just to chat i’m always down and usually online.</p><p>thank u all so much. &lt;3 &lt;3 &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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